


slipping in between

by allegoricalrose (SilentStars)



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, F/M, Series two wrap party, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 03:23:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5031871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentStars/pseuds/allegoricalrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set March 31, 2006: Billie's <a href="http://allegoricalrose.tumblr.com/post/131388000752/pennsasucky-and-thats-a-wrap#notes">last day</a> of filming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	slipping in between

He watches her until he can’t anymore, his eyelids droopy and his vision devolving into double every time his attention slips. But he knows where she is, be it in the loo or at the bar or slightly too close to the lead cameraman for his liking, even when she moves out of range of his encampment in the far corner. Cast and crew have been buying him drinks all evening and at some point it made sense to stay put and let people come to him rather than fight against smiles and handshakes to get to her. He’s stationary and she’s in flight and isn’t _that_  a great fucking metaphor.

Or is it an extended motif? Allegory? He knows he’s had too much to drink when he struggles to recall the difference between the two but when Graeme slides another lager across the table he gulps it down like he’s been in the desert for months. And he  _will_  be in the desert for the foreseeable future anyway, so in a way, it’s proactive. Prophylactic. He thinks of Billie again and needs to close his eyes as a fresh burst of alcohol hits his bloodstream.

Her scent hits him before anything else and then it’s her touch, or rather a rough bumping of an arm against his. No sounds from her throat reach his ears and he chances opening his eyes.

“Bill.”

“Dave,” she slurs, slumping into his shoulder again and slouching down in the booth until her head is level with his elbow. “Imma miss you.”

“Don’t go then. I’ll call Russell over, he can fix it.”

She giggles as he pretends to wave over their executive producer, turning so that her nose is pressed into the crook of his arm. “Can you imagine? He’d haul me right outta this pub and dump me in the street.”

“Couldn’t. I’d go right with you.” He’s joking but he’s really not.

“Can’t believe I’m having to do another g’bye. Again. Once more.” She tilts her head up so that he can see her eyes, dark and blown from all the drinks she’s been bought this evening, too.

“It’s not really goodbye. You won’t be rid of me that easily.”

“Mmm.” She’s quiet now and he closes his eyes again, enjoying the weight of her against her body. Definitely doesn’t think about her weight on his body in other contexts, other soft padded locations other than this pub booth.

No one comes over to them for the next few minutes, the longest stretch he’s had in the past few hours since filming finished, and it occurs to him that maybe he should read more into that. But he doesn’t. Instead he shifts her head so that it’s leaning on his chest instead, reaching around her shoulders and drawing her close. She hums contentedly and nuzzles into his side; her body goes still and her breathing evens.

When he opens his eyes the next time, the pub is emptying and there are only a few crew members left, mostly congregating in small groups in corners. Billie’s properly asleep, curled up against him, and the fact that no one bothered to wake them probably means the existence of hundreds of blurry camera phone pictures. He doesn’t care (will need to hunt a few down for his private collection, actually). What does concern him is getting home, and more than that, getting her home too. They’re both too pissed to be much use calling a taxi much less staying awake inside. He’s not comfortable sending her in a separate cab in this state anyway.

“Bill,” he whispers, nudging her softly. She grumbles and slides an arm around his stomach to anchor him in place. “Bill, it’s getting close to 11. Pub’s closing. We need to get home.”

He remembers when ‘home’ was the same building, regrets yet again his decision to move to a flat on fucking Cardiff Bay. Regrets her hospital-turned-posh-flats on the other side of the city. Regrets not taking better advantage of when they lived next door to one another in that wonderful full-service hotel.

Hotel. Right. That might be more doable. His eyes flicker over to the bartender and then to the sign above his head. The Canton. One of the few pubs left these days with rooms available. How very medieval.

“Bill. I’m going to get us a couple of rooms here. That sound good?”

She nods, her eyes remaining closed. “Mmm, ’s good.”

He’s really too far gone to be dealing with this but he’s better off than she is and he can do it. He can do it for her. He can look after her; he can protect her. And with that thought spurring him on, he gently disentangles himself from her arms and props her up in the corner of the booth. “I’ll be right back.”

“Miss you,” she mumbles before finding a ledge on which to rest her head. His heart pangs and he almost goes back to her warmth. But he’s on a mission.

The bartender is taken aback at someone actually requesting rooms but calls the manager over and through some complicated process he’s nowhere near understanding his credit card is taken and he’s being pointed toward a door he’s never noticed in all the times he’s been here. A key is pressed into his hand and he’s halfway back to his sleeping costar ( _ex_ -costar, he bitterly reminds himself) before the significance of the single key reaches his awareness. He turns back to the bar, probably stumbling but hopefully not toobadly, and explains again that he needs two keys. Two rooms. The bartender shakes his head, says that there’s only one room that they keep made-up for last minute guests. “Book in advance next time, mate,” he’s advised in a melodic Welsh tongue.

“Bill, wake up,” he shakes her lightly and she rouses easily, stretching and tilting her head to rid her of the cricks she’s sure to have in her neck. “I’ve got a room for you. Come on, sleep it off and we’ll grab lunch tomorrow.”

“K,” she smiles sleepily, standing and winding an arm around his waist. “Lead on, Teninch!”

Her increased alertness and reduction in slurring is enough to fend off any remaining doubts that she’s in any sort of danger from alcohol poisoning; she’s tired after their long day, after their long few weeks to be honest. She’ll be fine after some rest.

Together, without a backward glance to see just how many of their crew are watching them leave, they find their way through the door and up a flight of creaky spiral steps. The whole area back here is musty and dark but when they finally manage to find the door that matches the number on his key, the room is clean and fresh. It’s small, not much bigger than the size of the double bed inside, and although it has no attached bathroom, there’s a basin squeezed into a recess near the window.

Billie flops down onto the bed, stomach first, and flings her bag onto the floor. “That’s more like it. Good call, Dave. I feel like I could sleep for  _weeks_.”

He’s still in the doorway, shifting uncomfortably. “Do you need anything else? Water? Water, that’s what you need. I’ll go and get—”

“I’m good. There’s a cup by the sink anyway. Thanks. Mmm, this bed is surprisingly comfortable; try it!” She rubs her legs and arms appreciatively against the duvet.

He swallows. “Do you need to take your contacts out?”

“They’ll be alright in for one night.” She continues to nestle into the mattress, bunching up a pillow and rolling onto her side to face him. “Which room do you have?”

“Oh. Um, they only had one room, but I’ll swing by here in the morning and drive you home.”

Billie groans, long and exaggerated, and scoots over to the other side of the bed. “Don’t be a numpty: stay here tonight. You’re far too pissed to be getting a cab.”

“No, really, I’m okay, I—” he stammers, backing up so that he’s completely outside the room despite the door remaining open.

“Dave. Get in the bed.”

Her words send a shock of heat down his spine and he sucks in a breath. “Bill…”

“Dave. Come on, what are you afraid of? That I’ll bite?” Her eyes are gleaming and he knows she’s perfectly cognisant of the double entendre.

And yet he can’t help imagining it. And it’s that image, that image of bites and sucks and tongues licking stripes across her stomach and down to her hipbones, that breaks him. “If you’re sure.”

“‘Course I’m sure. Hop in.” Mercifully, she turns onto her side and faces the window instead of him.

With one step he’s in the room and in the next step his shoes are toed off, then his jacket, then his keys and wallet are piled atop his puddle of clothes.

And with that, he’s out of steps.

There’s no more distance between them and he’s settling down on the mattress next to her, fluffing a pillow and rolling it so that he can lie on his side to face her.

She turns once his movements calm, arms curled up in front of her and fingers in front of her mouth, brushing her lips. It’s an action she always does when she’s feeling self-conscious, covering the lower portion of her face, and it has no place with him. At least if he has any say in it. He reaches between them and entwines his fingers with hers, drawing their hands close to his chest like a teddy bear.

“It’s been a blast, working with you.” His voice is low and emotional and he clears his throat once the words are forced out.

“If I’d realised—” she starts and he shushes her.

“You’re right to leave. You’ve got so much ahead of you, Billie; so much more to do, bigger places to shine.”

“Wish I believed in myself even a fraction of the amount you do,” she sighs.

“You’re going to be brilliant.” It’s still early; the clock on the nightstand says 11:11 but it feels much later. Too late, perhaps. “Love ya, Bills.”

“Love you, Tennant,” she says around a smile and reclaims their joined hands to her side of the bed, planting a kiss on his knuckles before closing her eyes.

She goes to sleep but she’s alone in that. If he misses her this much now, how will he cope when she’s not half-folded into his arms? He strokes her hair and she turns a sleepy cheek into his palm, murmuring something he can’t decipher. It doesn’t matter, anyway. It’s nothing that can mean anything.

At some point in the night she partially wakes and begins tossing and turning. He gets her a glass of water from the sink and then another. Eventually she stills but not before scooting closer so that she’s resting her head against his chest. There’s no choice but to wrap his arm around her shoulders and draw her closer and it’s just as he decides he’s glad he’s awake for this that he falls asleep.

–

Dawn streams in through the curtains and his mouth is dry and he has a mild headache but her leg is between his and her fingers are pressed to the skin between his ribs and her lips are in the best spot they could possibly be: they’re caught between his. And then he’s sliding down her sleep-lagged body and his lips are between her legs.

They’ve never been so together and so, so alone.  


End file.
